Once Upon a Pirate Anthology

by Merry Farmer

  Furrowing a brow, Blake gave her query some thought. “The wind is especially strong,” he warned.

  “I don’t mind. I’ll just eat a bit of breakfast. Cook sent me off with some food,” she replied as she indicated her overstuffed reticule. “Said it would help in case I experienced seasickness.”

  The mention of food had Blake’s stomach growling, which reminded him that he hadn’t yet made it down to the mess for breakfast. Last evening’s lobster patties hadn’t lasted much beyond the supper dance. “Very well. But should the wind get to be too much, you’re welcome to return here,” he offered. “Here. Let me escort you to the best vantage on the ship.” He offered his arm, and, with a brilliant smile, Althea placed her arm on his, and they made their way to the railing at the bow.

  A Resourceful Young Woman

  Meanwhile, on the Channel

  Miss Barbara Wycliff knew something was wrong the moment her nose detected an unusual odor. Her bed linens had never smelled like this. Rank, with an undertone of salt and sweat. She wrinkled her nose in annoyance and moved her head, wondering why her neck hurt. Why her arms seemed to be pinned under her. Or were they behind her?

  Which way was up?

  I didn’t have but one glass of champagne, she thought as she experimentally moved one finger and felt something coarse. Coarse and not the least bit pleasant surrounding her wrists.

  Even her worst bracelet—the silver bracelet her older brother had bestowed on her for her sixteenth birthday—wasn’t as bad as what she was wearing now. And that poor excuse for jewelry had been relegated to the back of her jewel box the day after she had opened the velvet pouch, sure it wasn’t made by any of the silversmiths in Ludgate Hill.

  How could her brother think she would like the hideous design of intertwined vines with leaves that protruded in every direction? Those very pointy leaves threatening to impale her delicate, pale skin at every turn of her wrist? Why, she couldn’t even wear it with any of her ballgowns lest she stab herself in the middle of a cotillion or snag the fine silk of her ballgown. Even her dance partner would be at risk of injury.

  The floor seemed to drop from beneath her for a moment, only to lift back into place, and Barbara feared she might be sick.

  One glass of champagne?

  Could champagne really have her this uncomfortable?

  The sound of a distant voice—definitely belonging to a member of the opposite sex—had her straining her ears. It didn’t sound like one of the footmen of Parkenhurst House, nor the butler. Which had her opening one eye.

  Her head lifted, and she hissed at the pain she felt in her neck. Had she fallen asleep in the coach on the way home from the ball? If so, this had to be the ugliest coach in which she had ever ridden.

  What happened to the sky blue velvet that lined her father’s town coach? To the comfortable squabs that provided a modicum of comfort whilst she was whisked from home to the London entertainments during the Season?

  The floor seemed to move again, and Barbara opened both her eyes.

  She inhaled sharply, immediately determining she wasn’t in a town coach, nor a filthy hackney, nor even a conveyance at all. At least not one that was seeing to getting her home from the Weatherstone’s costume ball.

  The attempt to raise a hand to her face was met with resistance she just then realized wasn’t due to her brother’s hideous choice of jewelry, but rather bindings that held her wrists behind her back.

  The urge to put forth an unladylike curse was too strong to ignore. “Damnation,” she whispered hoarsely. She turned her head to the left and right, relieved to at least see a window, although very little light came from it. She was sitting, but not in velvet squabs. She was on a chair, and not one built for comfort.

  When she leaned forward to stand, she found she couldn’t. At least, not easily. She bent forward and lifted, prevented from straightening completely due to the combination of her hands being bound behind her back and around the chair’s back. Turning around, she allowed another curse when she confirmed she wasn’t in a coach or even a hackney.

  “Damnation!”

  This time, the curse was more audible.

  A door opened, and the stale air swirled around her as she turned to discover a man dressed in evening wear regarding her with an expression of amusement.

  “Nothing about this is amusing, sir,” she stated, one of her feet attempting to stomp on the rough wooden boards beneath her black satin slippers.

  The move made no noise, nor did it cause any vibration in the floor, which only annoyed her more. Barbara let out a sound of frustration. Knowing she looked ridiculous, dressed as Little Bo Peep and all bent over and bound to a chair, she leaned back and bent her knees until the chair legs made contact with the floor, and then she sat down with a huff.

  “I suppose not,” the man agreed, straightening once he was through the small opening and completely inside the tiny room.

  Barbara stared at the tall man, a combination of fear and annoyance keeping her from replying. At first, she had no idea who he was, which meant they hadn’t been properly introduced. But his evening clothes suggested he hadn’t made it to his home after his evening entertainments, either. Studying his clothes more closely, and then imagining him wearing a black mask, had her realizing she had seen him at the costume ball the night before.

  “This should all be over by the end of the day,” he said in a most reasonable manner.

  “This?” she repeated, wincing when she realized she had spoken.

  “It’s a nasty business, I know. But it’s necessary if I’m to gain enough to cover my expenses for the next year. I figure twenty-thousand pounds should be enough,” he drawled as he pretended to study his fingernails. “Word has already been sent to your father.”

  Furrowing her brown brows, Barbara regarded the well-dressed man a moment as she considered his words. “We’ve not been introduced,” she remarked.

  His eyes darting to one side, as if he was giving her comment its due, he gave his head a shake. “We have not,” he agreed, just as the floor beneath them shifted.

  The motion had Barbara realizing she wasn’t on solid ground, but rather on water.

  She had been on a sailing ship once, back when her parents had taken her to the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies for a month. After a few days, she had adjusted to the constant up and down motion of the water. Welcomed it at night, when it lulled her to sleep. Tolerated it during the daylight hours between meals, when she thought she might toss up whatever she had last eaten.

  Odd that she didn’t experience any seasickness during the meals. Which had her realizing she was about to be sick.

  “Is there something to eat?” she asked, ignoring the comment about her father. At least, at first. Was he referring to money for a ransom? Had she been kidnapped? From Lord Weatherstone’s costume ball, no less?

  “I can have a tray delivered,” he offered.

  She arched an eyebrow. “Now?” She glanced around, in search of a bucket. “I don’t feel so well,” she added, making sure she appeared as pale as possible.

  It wasn’t difficult.

  She glanced down at her mode of dress and winced. She had thought her decision to dress as Little Bo Peep inspired, but this costume wasn’t going to serve her well on this day. She had chosen the gown because it was perfect for her wide hips and trim waist. On a ship manned by, well, men—and no chaperone in sight—she might well be ruined.

  Which had her wondering what might have become of her lady’s maid. Woodcock had been with her at the ball, appropriately dressed in the gown Barbara should have been wearing. Her ornate mask had prevented anyone from guessing she was a servant.

  “What of the woman I was with at the ball? My... companion?” When Aunt Lilly had sent word her gout had flared up and wouldn’t allow her to attend the masked ball, Barbara had thought to simply stay at home. But Woodcock had been quick with her suggestion that she be allowed to go in Aunt Lilly’s stead. If anyone asked the m
aid to dance, she would feign an injured foot or only accept an offer for an English country dance she knew.

  An arched brow preceded the kidnapper’s response. “I’m quite sure I don’t know who you mean.” He frowned then, apparently noticing for the first time that Barbara really was on the verge of being sick.

  He quickly disappeared through the doorway, and a different man, this one most definitely a sailor, given his swarthy complexion, unusual mode of mis-matched dress, and missing teeth, entered carrying a bucket.

  His odor alone had Barbara gagging.

  “Mornin’, miss,” he said as he set the bucket next to her chair. “Cook’s workin’ on breakfast—cackle fruit and whatnot—but I can bring porridge right quick.”

  Barbara stared at the sailor, amazed she could understand his strange accent. “Yes. Please do,” she replied. “And could you inform your captain that I’ve been kidnapped and bound to this chair with the most uncomfortable means of restraint? I really insist they be removed, especially since I’ll need my hands to eat.”

  The sailor’s eyes widened and then darted to one side. “Why, I think he knows, miss.”

  “Oh, good. Because Lord Dorchester is due to call on me at two-o’clock this afternoon, and I shouldn’t want to miss my opportunity for a ride in the park with him. I get so few of them, you see,” she said as she angled her head to one side.

  Truth be told, she knew Lord Dorchester’s reasoning for taking her to Hyde Park at two o’clock instead of the fashionable hour of five o’clock was probably because he didn’t wish to be seen in her company.

  Most of her suitors wanted to avoid being seen with her. To be seen with her in polite Society suggested a desperation found only in men who needed funds to cover debts—or just funds in general.

  She wasn’t a beauty by any stretch of the imagination. Although she had long, brown hair, it was a brown of indistinguishable characteristics. No golden streaks or red highlights. No natural curls or waves that made it easy for her lady’s maid to dress. Just straight, mousy brown tresses.

  Her broad face didn’t help, either. Although she had wide-set eyes that might be considered exotic, the rest of her face was merely that. A face. Normal lips, unfortunately not of a rosebud shape. Cheeks that weren’t enhanced by high cheekbones or a natural pinkish coloring. A nose that wasn’t upturned nor hooked nor thin. A chin that might have been a bit on the pointy side, if not for the slightly squarishness at the very end that helped to soften the effect.

  No, she was not a beauty.

  But she was rich.

  At least, her father was. Her dowry meant she had any number of gorgeous young bucks paying calls and filling her dance cards.

  Just not openly courting her.

  Thank the gods her father could afford the very best modiste and fashions to be had in London. She might not be the most attractive young lady at a ton ball, but at least she could be the best dressed, even if her gowns had to be specially made to accommodate her oversized bosom and wide hips.

  If ever there was a body perfect for childbearing—and a gown suitable to play the role of Little Bo Peep—she knew she possessed it.

  What else could she offer a prospective husband?

  Her seasickness forgotten, Barbara frowned at the sailor. “Well, if the captain knows, then why am I still here?” she asked, a hint of annoyance coloring her words.

  The sailor blinked. “Can’t say as I know, miss,” he replied. Then, before she could ask anything else, he disappeared—or rather, escaped—through the door, and Barbara was once again left alone.

  She reviewed his words in her head. The captain knew. And since he knew and hadn’t come to her rescue, then perhaps he was in on the kidnapping!

  Or maybe he had been kidnapped, too!

  Barbara’s stomach growled, reminding her it was morning. A quick glance in the direction of what she now knew was a porthole confirmed the sun had come up. As to how high, she had no idea.

  She regarded the door, thinking the sailor hadn’t secured it with any sort of locking mechanism. If she could just lean forward again and get to her feet, she might be able to waddle in that direction. Getting rid of the chair would help immensely, but how to get the hard back to slide out from between her back and her arms would be tricky.

  She pushed her arms back as far as they would go and then winced when she saw how her bosom pressed up above the neckline of her dress. Despite the danger of falling out of her gown, Barbara leaned forward and wiggled her arms.

  She could feel the chair back slowly give way, and she took a few tiny steps forward until the front legs of the wooden chair caught on the floor and the back gave way from her arms.

  Once she was free, she bent one leg so the chair wouldn’t go clattering to the floor, her slippered foot catching the front of it and lowering it until the edge was just inches from the floor. She quickly stepped forward and winced when the chair-back caught the back of her skirts. At least the chair didn’t make much noise when it finally landed on the wooden planks.

  Once again surveying the room—the light from the porthole was definitely brighter now—Barbara sorted from the barrels and crates that were stacked on one side that she was in some sort of storage room. Then, when she turned to see a cot and small wardrobe on the opposite wall, she gave a sound of protest.

  Am I supposed to sleep on that? she wondered, her nose crinkling at the mussed linens. The thought that they had put her into someone’s cabin almost had her feeling sick again.

  She regarded the bucket and the chair. Thought of her hands behind her back.

  Well, she could at least make her arms more comfortable. She bent her knees and squatted down as far as she could and then fell back on her bum, grimacing when she realized the wooden floor probably hadn’t been cleaned since the boat was built. Then she leaned to one side and pulled one arm forward before rocking to the other side and doing the same with her other arm.

  Cursing at how difficult it was to get her arms around her hips, she continued rocking side to side and pulling her arms forward until they were beneath her thighs. Once her knees were bent up to her chin—or at least her bosom—she was able to work her bound hands beneath her legs and feet and around the gown and petticoats. When her arms were finally in front of her, she let out the breath she’d been holding and cursed.

  The binding was twine, which explained the coarseness, but at least the ends were slip-knotted. She grimaced as she used her teeth to pull on the ends, and then gave a sound of disgust when the knot was finally free and she had to push the offensive material away from her mouth with her tongue.

  Wincing, Barbara rubbed her wrists. At least her silk gloves, now ruined, had prevented the twine from directly touching her skin.

  She scrambled to her feet and shook out her skirts. A quick look through the porthole showed water for almost as far as she could see, although there might have been a hint of the cliffs of southern England in the distance.

  Or was that some other land mass?

  Barbara blinked. Had they been on the water that long? She remembered the man’s comment about this being over by this evening.

  Over where, though? Where was he taking her? And how was her father supposed to find her?

  Marching to the door, she opened it a crack and peeked out. Cooking scents—and not good ones—assaulted her nostrils, but no one seemed to be on the part of the deck she could see. Opening the door wider, she leaned out and decided the entire crew must have gone to the mess for breakfast.

  Was this ship even large enough to include a mess?

  She slipped out, inhaling the fresh air with appreciation. Glancing left and right and finding the deck clear, she closed the door as quietly as she could manage and then made her way to the starboard rail. A few steps more toward the bow, and she was able to hide behind what she had just then come to realize was the captain’s quarters.

  Had the man no self-respect? His quarters were filthy. Even before she could conclude what
might have happened to her given the lack of a chaperone, Barbara took stock of her bearings.

  South.

  The ship was definitely sailing south, which meant it would either land in France, or turn east and make its way out to sea. Another option had it following the coast around to the Straits of Gibraltar.

  The thought of open water had her stomach churning. She had made the trip to the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies with her parents when she was fourteen years of age. She loved Rome and Florence, Naples and Venice. But she had wished for death when the ship sailed on the Mediterranean.

  This was not good.

  Especially because, even though she was no longer tied to a chair in the captain’s quarters, she had no place to go.

  She thought briefly of commandeering a life raft, but details such as how to get into it, how to get it into the water, and then how to row it had her deciding she was better off finding a place to hide.

  Or should she just return to the captain’s cabin and await the delivery of breakfast?

  In Pursuit

  Meanwhile

  With a British ensign flying from the top mast, the Molly made its way out of the Thames and into the Channel. The ship was barely past the cliffs of Dover when white caps promised a rough crossing. The wind had picked up, and although that boded well for their speed of travel, it didn’t make Flinn’s job very easy.

  The spyglass held to his eye, Flinn surveyed the line where the sky met the sea, struggling to concentrate on the southern horizon as the ship rocked and bucked. The sails on their third mast had been deployed once they had passed Botany Bay, and their speed had nearly achieved its maximum when Walmer Castle came into view.

  The ships that had clogged the Thames earlier that morning had spread out on the water, their paths forming a sort of blooming flower. Some headed north, their cargo intended for Newcastle or Edinburgh. Some headed directly across the North Sea to Belgium or The Netherlands. Most fanned out to the south.